


Beloved Open Wounds

by narcissablaxk



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of Violence, escape from muskrat farm, mentions of teacups, shameless fluff, terms of endearment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26205526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk
Summary: What if Hannibal talked to Will's unconscious body on the escape from Muskrat Farm? And what if Will heard it all?
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 21
Kudos: 227





	Beloved Open Wounds

Will Graham came to consciousness on the rocky waves of the ocean, surrounded by darkness. He was moving, pitching from side to side like a boat on the sea. He wanted to hold onto the side of the boat, wanted to adjust the sail, keep himself upright. But every wave beat him back down under the tide of pain, and his body stayed limp. His mind worked furiously, trying to force his limbs into motion, but he could feel nothing but pins and needles in his extremities, a painful stretch in his right shoulder. 

The ocean was starting to recede – the dark waves pulled away and only a minimal amount returned. Will felt himself being shifted on the floor of his boat, the movement almost gentle, and sighed, a soft exhalation of breath that brought his boat to painfully still halt. 

Except it wasn’t a boat, he realized now as his body started to regain feeling. He was being carried, an arm underneath his knees and his shoulders, warmth fading into biting cold. He couldn’t open his eyes – he wasn’t sure he wanted to, but his brain supplied him with the information he needed, as it always did. 

Mason Verger sitting to his left at a dining table, Cordell’s blood in his mouth, Hannibal’s pleased smile on the other side of him. The way his eyes flashed when their gazes met. Cordell strapping him to a table, making sure his arms and legs were bound so tightly he couldn’t hope to move, the smell of permanent marker on his skin. 

The pain of the incision on his jaw rocketed through him when the warmth of the house well and truly faded away, and Will could now clearly hear the sound of boots in the snow, crunching slowly, steadily, faithfully. His neck was bent back, his savior using all of his strength just to keep Will’s body out of the snow, unable to make sure he was comfortable while he did it. 

“Two guards,” it was Hannibal’s voice, Will didn’t know why he expected anyone else. “Either side.” 

It wasn’t loud, but still, surprise jolted through Will’s body like a surge of electricity, and Hannibal’s arms held him still tighter. 

The distant sound of a gunshot came once, twice. He heard bodies fall behind them. 

“We’re free now, _mylimasis_ ,” Hannibal murmured, and Will knew he was talking to him. “I wonder, will you spurn me now, after all this? Or do you still harbor hope that a teacup can come together?” 

Will didn’t answer – couldn’t answer. He could feel Hannibal’s arms shaking, though from the cold or the strain of carrying him, he couldn’t tell. It would have been easier to just throw him over his shoulder, would have been less cumbersome, but Hannibal wouldn’t do that. 

He carried Will like precious cargo, not like he would a pig. 

“I heard you, in the catacombs, calling my name. How I longed to go to you, to accept your forgiveness openly. But we stand on the edge of a precipice, my dear boy, and we will either have to step away from it together or go over together.” 

Hannibal’s steady steps slowly rocked Will into an almost slumber, exhaustion weakening him further. The pain in his face was fading – he knew that was because of the cold, but he was still drugged, still unable to move. He wondered if Hannibal knew he could hear him, or if Hannibal just finally wanted to say what he imagined Will would never accept if he were awake. 

“I would have loved to show you Florence, _mylimasis_ ,” he continued, and there was that word again, in Hannibal’s mother tongue, a term of endearment that Will knew he would obsess over until he managed to get Hannibal to translate it for him. “Perhaps one day we will go back. When it’s safe.” 

Will could hear an engine idling in the distance, just over Hannibal’s labored breathing. Was that a car he had waiting for them? Or would Hannibal put him down to dispose of the driver? 

“I think I’d take you to the south of France,” Hannibal was saying, almost a whisper, “with all of your dogs. Find a chateau where they can run in the courtyard while you watch. I’ll draw you in every medium, commit your beauty to the canvas, commit my love to every instrument that bore you.” 

He couldn’t know Will could hear him – he would never say these things out loud if he knew Will was listening. These were the words he hid behind his eyes when Will managed to catch him staring, the sentiments he buried beneath metaphors of Achilles and Patroclus, beneath bodies torn asunder by his violent affection. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Will recognized Chiyoh’s voice, delicate and still steel-strong. 

“Drugged,” Hannibal said shortly. “Gas?” he asked, referring to the car. 

“It will take you where you need to go,” she answered. 

Hannibal didn’t allow her to help him put Will in the backseat – he arranged him in there himself, carefully angling Will’s head so that he was resting on Hannibal’s lap, the incision on his jaw angled upward, where it couldn’t be touched accidentally. He was meticulous, delicate, as he was with everything else he took pride in. 

Will wasn’t sure how he felt about that observation. 

“To Baltimore?” she asked, and it wasn’t really a question. 

“To Wolf Trap,” Hannibal corrected. 

“He’ll sleep for hours,” Chiyoh pointed out. “You need fresh clothes, you need –”

“He will want to be in his home when he wakes,” Hannibal interrupted. “To Wolf Trap.” 

When the car started moving, Hannibal’s hands found Will’s face, gently keeping his head in place, the incision protected. Will always resented feeling like a broken toy, like an old mug, as he described to Hannibal once before, but he didn’t feel like that now. He felt protected, coveted. He listened to Hannibal’s voice, now whispering quiet words in French, and then Lithuanian, and then a mix of other languages Will couldn’t identify, all of the words dripping with reverence, with relief. 

He drifted off to sleep that way, warmth spreading through him as the heater compensated for the snow outside, Hannibal’s voice orchestrating his dreams, where he sat on a gilded chair in the sunlight, listening to his pack play in the yard, Hannibal sitting across from him in a thin linen suit, the lines around his face relaxed and pleased. 

His dreams were always nightmares – he waited with bated breath for the turn, but when Hannibal got up and went inside, through double French doors, he returned, not bloody and broken and angry, but with a tray of tea, the teacups the same ones from his home in Baltimore. 

“Tea, _mylimasis_?” he asked, and Will felt his chest hammer like his body understood the word, even if his brain didn’t. 

“Please, _mon cœur_ ,” Will replied, mostly to see Hannibal falter and avert his gaze, the way he always did when Will caught him off-guard. He watched him pour the tea, hands steady, careful, deliberate in every movement. He could still see the scars on his wrists. 

So his dreams didn’t sugar-coat everything. 

He sat in the sun, listening to the dogs, aware that Hannibal had taken out his sketch book and was committing this particular moment to memory.

“Would you like to stay here forever?” Hannibal asked. 

Will leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, feeling the real Hannibal’s phantom hand on his jaw. “I think I would,” he said. 

The next thing he heard was the teacup shattering and suddenly, he was back in the moving car, except it wasn’t moving anymore, and Hannibal was gently pulling him into his arms again, the jingle of keys telling him that Chiyoh was still with them. 

The dogs weren’t there – they’re with Price, excited that their temporary master was liberal with treats and letting them all pile onto his bed. Will expected Zeller might kick them off, but he was grateful they weren’t here now, not with Hannibal practically shivering with exhaustion and cold, himself cut open at the jaw. 

He would miss them in the morning, he knew. 

Chiyoh didn’t come inside – Hannibal gently placed Will on the couch and left him alone while they talked in hushed tones on the porch. It was hard work, staying awake now, especially when the familiar smells of his home lured him closer toward comfort. 

And then the door was opening again and Hannibal was back inside, his measured steps so familiar that Will could tell where he was and what he was doing by only the sound. He listened while he started a fire in the fireplace, while he washed his hands clean, and while he gathered materials to patch himself up. 

Except Hannibal wasn’t bothering to patch himself up – he was pulling a chair up to Will’s side, and turning on the lamp there, illuminating his face. 

Will furrowed his brows at the light, the sudden change bright even while his eyes were still closed, and heard Hannibal’s breath catch. 

“Will?” he asked, the voice so achingly soft that Will felt his mouth pulling upward. 

“I’m right here,” he said, his voice barely there. 

“I need to stitch your wound closed,” Hannibal said, suddenly business-like. “Can you stay still for me?” 

Gone were the whispered endearments, the Lithuanian. Hannibal was back to himself again, carefully measured and planned. Will tried not to let the disappointment show on his face. How often would they do what Hannibal had just done? Whisper confessions only to sweep them away when someone else could hear? 

“’Course, yeah,” he murmured when he realized Hannibal was waiting for his explicit consent. 

The sting of the needle and the pull of the thread kept him awake, even while the drugs still tried to forcibly pull him back under. He kept his eyes on Hannibal, brow furrowed in concentration while he worked, hands freezing cold, so cold Will wondered if he’d have the courage to take them in his own when the work was done, to warm them. 

“How did you get free?” he asked when Hannibal clipped the end of the thread, watching him carefully.

Hannibal turned away to put his tools down, the lamp obscuring his face. Will knew the lines of his face intimately enough to read them fluently, even in shadow. He was trying to decide how much to tell, and how much to keep to himself. 

“Alana,” he said finally. “She set me free so I could save you.” 

“Would you have saved me if she hadn’t?” 

Hannibal turned back to him, eyes dark. “I would have found you somehow.” 

“Did you kill them all?” he asked, and Hannibal gave him an exasperated look. 

“Not all of them,” he said moodily, picking up his notebook and flipping it open. “Alana and Margot killed Mason. Chiyoh killed some others.” 

“But Cordell,” Will pressed. “The ones who had me. You killed them.” 

“Should I have spared them?” 

Will studied his profile, the way his eyes stayed glued to his notebook, the pen in his hand. It was angled carefully, so the contents on the page were cast in shadow. 

“I didn’t expect you to,” he said finally, the words almost a sigh. The Hannibal that had spoken to him on Muskrat farm was gone, replaced by this cooler, enigmatic one. Perhaps he was worried that Will was still angry at him, still harboring an intent to kill him. After all, it wasn’t too long ago that he held a saw blade to his skull. 

Educated caution would dictate that Will would still be planning Hannibal’s comeuppance. 

“Did you want me to?” 

“Spare them?” Will asked. “No.” He considered his next statement carefully. “I would have liked to have seen what you did to them.” 

_That_ caught Hannibal’s attention. He looked up from his notebook, eyes intense, and studied the planes of Will’s face hungrily, looking for deception. Will imagined he deserved that. 

“What did you do to them?” he asked, his voice low. 

Hannibal blinked, and set the notebook on the table. “Nothing as artful as you deserve.” 

It was as close to those whispered declarations that Will had gotten so far, so he took it gladly. What did turning each other away ever do for either of them, in the end? They hurt each other, hurt others, and people had died because of it. Perhaps, if they had just accepted each other, more people would still be alive. 

Or more people would be dead. The idea didn’t turn his stomach the way it used to. 

“You must be freezing,” Will said into the meaningful silence. “If you help me up –”

“Don’t get up,” Hannibal interrupted. 

“There’s clothes in the closet that might fit you,” Will finished. 

Hannibal studied him for a moment longer before pushing himself up to stand, taking longer than usual. Will noticed the careful way he carried himself, like he ached all over. He wished he wasn’t so lethargic, that the drugs weren’t still working their way through his system, so he could help him. He didn’t like feeling like he owed a debt, and saving his life and carrying him through the snow was about as steep a debt as he could get. 

But maybe he could even the score a little. 

He considered what he was going to say before he said it – he did that a lot with Hannibal, even though he didn’t do it much for anyone else. He wanted to be sure his words would be received the way he intended them, but in the end, he threw out what few careful words he found. 

“What does _mylimasis_ mean?” he asked. 

Hannibal froze in the act of peeling off his blood-soaked shirt, the muscles in his back taut and dangerous. Will didn’t press, but watched as the other man slowly came back to himself, pulling off the shirt and pulling on one of Will’s old sweatshirts, faded and dark red. 

“It’s Lithuanian,” Hannibal said slowly, and turned back to Will, now dressed in only Will’s clothes, his hair mussed, the cuts on his face so dark they were almost black. 

“Yes, but what does it mean?” Will asked, his eyes dropping to the notebook on the table. He reached for it and almost knocked it to the floor. His arms still weren’t really doing what he wanted them to. “What’s this?” he asked, the previous question still lingering in the air. “Physics?” 

“The formula for time travel,” Hannibal said nonchalantly, but his jaw was tight, his eyes faraway. 

“Time –” Will looked down at the notebook again. He wanted to laugh – this was such a Hannibal thing to do, write down the formula for time travel when what he really needed to do was apologize. “To make a teacup come together.” 

“Would you have it any other way?” 

Hannibal was standing over him again, eyes clouded, hand open for the notebook. Will passed it over, and then held out his own hand for Hannibal to take. 

“Help me get to the bed,” he said, a command rather than a question, so Hannibal couldn’t keep him locked onto the couch forever. Hannibal took his hand and let Will pull himself shakily to his feet, careful to keep one arm under Will’s shoulders, just in case. 

Here he was again, handling Will like precious cargo. Will wondered why it didn’t feel like coddling now. 

He landed gently in his own bed, thanks to Hannibal, and pulled back the covers on the other side. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Get in before you freeze.” 

“I’m not cold –”

“Get in the bed, Hannibal.” 

He waited until the other man was settled before pressing his question again, this time turning carefully so Hannibal couldn’t get away, couldn’t look away. 

“What does _mylimasis_ mean?” he asked. 

“Beloved,” the answer came easier to him now, leaving his mouth in the unapologetic way Will was accustomed to hearing hard truths. Will took the information with a nod, even while his pulse pounded in his ears. 

“They will come for us,” he said finally, into the silence. He reached out for Hannibal’s arm and pulled him closer, so they were pressed together. “We’ll have to leave.” 

“We?” 

“I was thinking the south of France,” he continued like Hannibal hadn’t spoken. “I could find a way to get the dogs sent over eventually, once we get settled.” 

Beside him, Hannibal exhaled a shaky breath, something that sounded halfway between a laugh and a sob, and Will paused, eyes searching in the near darkness now that the lamp was far away and the fire cast nothing but shadows. 

“Give up your equations,” he said finally, when Hannibal’s hand came to rest on the side of his face, carefully avoiding his stitches. “I don’t need them.” 

Hannibal had to pull himself over to Will’s side to kiss him, slow and tender and chaste, because every movement pulled at his stitches, but it didn’t matter, because they had tomorrow, and the day after that, and Hannibal was whispering that word to him again as he pulled him carefully into his embrace. 

_Mylimasis._


End file.
